Four Narnian Crossovers that Never Happened
by Lirenel
Summary: There are many fandoms in this world. Here are four that could have – but didn't – cross over with Narnia. Any warnings can be found on my profile.


**Title: **Four Narnian Crossovers that Never Happened.  
**Summary: **There are many fandoms in this world. Here are four that could have – but didn't – cross over with Narnia.  
**Author's Note: **This is a bit of crack that I wrote during a boring class to keep me awake. Since I don't expect everyone to be familiar with all four fandoms, I realize this might not be a popular fic. But it was fun to write, and that's what matters. Also, I put this as a Hogan's Heroes crossover, despite it being a crossover with four fandoms, because there needs to be more Hogan's Heroes fics in this world.

The fandoms are: Doctor Who (with the Eleventh Doctor), Star Trek: the Original Series (that's the one with Captain Kirk and Spock), Sherlock (the new, modern-day take on Sherlock Holmes as seen on the BBC), and Hogan's Heroes (A comedy from the 60s set in a WWII POW camp. With Nazis. It's _amazing_.)

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_1. "I like the bit when someone says 'It's bigger on the inside!' I always look forward to that." The Eleventh Doctor, Vampires of Venice._

The Doctor grinned, waiting for the usual exclamation of wonder. It was always his favorite part of showing off the TARDIS, the exclamation of wonder. The grin faded when the golden-haired young woman only looked slightly startled and then…disappointed? When she just shrugged and moved on, inspecting the central console, the Doctor spoke up, "So…notice anything interesting?" he asked, rocking back on his heels.

The girl looked up at him, paused, and then answered, "It's a little…messy."

"Messy?" The Doctor didn't know if he was more annoyed at the insult to his cleaning habits or the TARDIS's not-so-gentle "I told you so" nudge at the back of his mind.

"When was the last time you dusted?"

The Doctor pouted. "You know, most people just comment on how it's bigger on the inside."

He was answered by a wistful smile. "I've seen better," she whispered and wandered off in the direction of the library – the one with the banyan tree in the middle, not the pool.

With a frown, the Doctor followed, muttering, "I knew it was a bad idea to bring a woman named Lucy on board. Should have learned from the Master that Lucy's are bad news for Time Lords."

The TARDIS whirled in amused agreement.

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_2. "Death. Destruction. Disease. Horror. That's what war is all about. That's what makes it a thing to be avoided." – Captain James T. Kirk, A Taste of Armgeggedon_

"We offer you weapons that can wipe your enemies from the face of your planet!" argued the frustrated Klingon commander. "They will be dust flung to the winds!"

None of the kings and queens of this world looked impressed. King Edmund, the designated negotiator, shook his head. "The weapons you describe sound abhorrent to us, not even leaving a body for families to mourn. And our healing arts are not able to deal with the injuries as such you say some of these weapons can deliver. How could we then care for the injured after battle?"

The Klingon growled. "If you would destroy your enemies down to the last child, you would have no need for 'healing arts'!"

The atmosphere of the throne room grew cold. King Edmund's eyes narrowed. "We do not treat with those who would advocate the murder of children. I am afraid we must request that you leave our lands until that time you have examined your hearts and learned that war is only for the protection of innocents, not for their determined destruction."

With a roar, the furious Klingon raised his phaser, aiming at the four rulers of the kingdom. The roar turned into a howl of pain as a sword came down on his hand, and the weapon clattered useless to the marble floor. Within moments the entire Klingon dlegation was disarmed and bound, held in check by a cadre of centaurs.

King Edmund turned his attention to the other delegation, who were staring at the captive Klingons in surprised awe. "I would allow you your chance to counter to claims of this party, Captain, but it seems they have countered themselves," said the king, with a tone that suggested that he had suspected this would happen from the start. "Do you have anything to add?"

Captain Kirk nodded. "It is our custom not to interfere in the development of other worlds. If you like, we will take the Klingons and you won't hear from us until you reach the technological capabilities to contact us on your own ability. However, we would like to arrange for the Federation to send resources to protect you from peoples like the Klingons who have no compunction about taking what they want by force."

King Edmund signaled his guards to turn the Klingons over to the Starfleet officers. "Thank you for your offer, Captain, but we already have protection."

"You speak of the lion deity of your culture?' asked Spock, who had found this land fascinating, if illogical.

The king turned his wise eyes to look at the Vulcan. "We speak of _Aslan_," he corrected.

Captain Kirk had the funniest feeling that that was enough.

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3. _"Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator." Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Pink_

John Watson sighed and started picking up the Nicotine patches and throwing them in the rubbish bin. "You need to stop this, Sherlock. You _proved_ that Mrs. King wasn't the murderer, you _found_ who killed her granddaughter, and stopped him pretty permanently at that. What more can you do?" As it was, Mrs. Hudson was already baking them some chocolate biscuits as thanks for clearing the name of her elderly bridge partner.

"I don't understand it, John. I don't understand _her."_

John sat in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. Sherlock had been complaining about his lack of ability to understand Mrs. King for the entire case. With a sigh, John reiterate the points he had already made to Sherlock's frustrated observations. "Mrs. King survived the Blitz; she lost her family in a gruesome wreck – it's not surprising that she wouldn't be hysterically paralyzed at finding her granddaughter's body. Her ability to stare down Lestrade probably comes from being a grandmother – you never met my Grandma Watson. And she's 82 years old; hallucinating talking lions is sad, but not significantly unusual."

Sherlock was not moved. "She is obviously not suffering from neurological problems. I would brush up on your symptoms if I were you." He cut of John's protestation. "I have considered all this. My problem is understanding her reaction to the final attack by Mr. Klivian."

John frowned. While he had been following up a sighting of the suspect, Sherlock had realized that Klivian was going to go after the newly released Mrs. King and had dashed to her flat to confront him. By the time John and Lestrade caught up, they found Sherlock awkwardly trying to comfort a sobbing Mrs. King. The detective had glowered at the late arrivals, deftly describing how he had been forced to kill Klivian with a decorative bow and arrow that Mrs. King kept in her flat. With Mycroft's (unwanted) help, the whole mess was quickly cleaned up, and everyone went home in relief at having solved the case. "I'm not sure what you mean," John admitted, warily.

Sherlock remained lying on the couch, eyes closed. "I may have exaggerated my role in subduing Klivian." When John didn't speak, Sherlock elaborated. "Mrs. King was perfectly able to defend herself – I was quite impressed at her ability to draw a 50 pound bow in close quarters."

John stared. "She's _82 years old._"

"No," said Sherlock, his brilliant mind remembering clearly the sight of an elderly woman not defending herself, but dealing clear justice to her granddaughter's murderer; remembering her tearful confessions never heard by Scotland Yard. "No, I think Susan King is older than she appears." He scowled. "I just don't know _how._"

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_4. "WHAT IS THIS MAN DOING HERE!" Major Hochstetter, The Battle of Stalag 13 (and a lot of other times as well)_

"Blimey, are we digging into the Home Guard for pilots these days?" muttered Peter Newkirk as LeBeau led the newest downed airmen into the tunnels.

The airman in question shrugged at the comment, obviously having heard it before. "Sergeant Peter Pevensie, officially 19 years old, at your service."

Colonel Hogan chuckled at the stress the boy – and he _was_ a boy – made on the word 'officially'. "Well, whatever your age, welcome to Stalag 13. You'll be here a few days until we can get you out of the country, but please avail yourself of the amenities donated by the Germans– unwillingly, of course – to our humble tunnels."

The airmen gazed around them in near awe as they were moved through the tunnels that had been built right beneath the POW camp in the middle of Germany. One pilot nearly choked on air when he saw the counterfeiting press. But what caught Hogan's eye was hoe young Sergeant Pevensie was viewing the tunnels – with approving admiration and a glint of inspiration.

Since all the downed airmen were exhausted after their flight from Gestapo pursuers, the Colonel held off questioning the Sergeant until the next day. Separating him from the others was unusually hard, since Pevensie's crew was as protective of their sergeant as Hogan's men were of him. Finally, though, Hogan cornered Pevensie as he was scribbling in a notebook in the corner of a tunnel. "So, Pevensie."

Hogan was amused, rather than irritated, that the kid didn't even look up at the superior officer. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Whatcha have there?" seemed like a good, unaccusing starter sentence. There was no need to let the boy know that Hogan found him suspiciously odd.

Pevensie finished with what he was doing and turned his notebook – which had apparently survived the ejection from a crashing plane with only a few burn marks – so that Colonel Hogan could see some rough sketches. On a closer look, Hogan was surprised to realize that Pevensie had sketched…a ball-bearing factory? The young sergeant apparently could see the confusion – and suspicion – on Hogan's face, so Pevensie elaborated. "We passed a few German installations on our way here. Looking around, I figure you might be able to use the details – or at least get them to London, if I don't miss my guess."

Taking the notebook from the boy, Hogan could see that the details in the sketches and scribbles on the side were precisely what were needed to make a hit on the factory and, flipping through the other pages, several other key Nazi installations as well. Hogan looked up at Pevensie, who was now standing at ease, and gave him an appraising look. "Why do I get the feeling you have a few ideas on how to go about using this intel?"

A mischievous grin, much like the one that Hogan often wore, spread across Pevensie's face.

A week later, Hogan was on the radio with London requesting the permanent assignment of Sergeant Peter Charles Pevensie at Stalag 13.

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Someday, I plan on writing an entire Hogan's Heroes crossover, though with Edmund and Lucy instead of Peter. It's one of those long-term plans.


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